a poem a day for a year #118

by Amy Turn Sharp


someday when we are
dead bones
broken myths
all gone
will there be anything left
to prove that we used to
meet after work and read the paper aloud
to each other
drinking ales in black leather booths
kissing
studying each other
walking rainy streets home
like children with sweets
faces wet slick smiling
our strong legs walking the path
towards the squeaky staircase
to the home where we lived
where we practiced breathing
heart beating
love diving
where we whispered our
stories
across our bodies
across the universe
across the fast moving sky